


Love Derek, and the Cat

by Thealmostrhetoricalquestion



Series: A Series of Completely Unrelated Festive Stories [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Christmas Cards, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Derek Hale is a Softie, Established Relationship, Everyone Is Alive, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Mild Language, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 20:46:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16772632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion/pseuds/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion
Summary: Derek writes Christmas Cards. Stiles is there.Stiles rolled onto his stomach, silent in the wake of Derek’s casual annihilation of his character. He propped his chin up on his hands and narrowed his eyes at his boyfriend of three years, who was currently being a dick, but also looked very handsome and soft, which confused Stiles’s simple mind.





	Love Derek, and the Cat

**Author's Note:**

> Is it too early for festive things??? Who knows, man. Also, do people still read sterek stuff? Who knows that either. If you do read, i hope you enjoy it, because they are the bitchiest softest most beautiful couple and i love and miss them sometimes. Not really canon stuff, but Stiles is of age, a teacher, and Derek is a werewolf with an alive family. What fun!
> 
> Rated T for some language and very very vague sexual references.

The coffee table rattled when Derek dropped three boxes of Christmas Cards on top of it. 

Stiles jerked out of his writing headspace, which required a lot of preparation and thought and procrastination to get into in the first place, and was now thoroughly obliterated. His cold coffee sloshed all over a thankfully blank piece of paper, and he flailed a bit, narrowly avoiding sticking his pen in his ear.

“Christ,” he wheezed, as he glared up at Derek. “You could have _killed_ me. What the hell?"

"Hello to you too," Derek said. 

"See this?” Stiles waved his pen at Derek, who remained unimpressed, his cheeks flushed with cold. “This is a deadly instrument in the wrong hands.” He glanced at the boxes. “The hell is this? I thought you went out for milk.”

Derek rubbed his hands together to coax the cold out of them and then set about unbuttoning his coat, because sadly, he was not shirtless. In a depressing turn of events, even toasty space-heater-esque werewolves felt the chill in the middle of December, because Beacon Hills was a disgusting town that dared to get _cold_ in the winter. 

“I put the milk in the fridge already. And if I wanted to kill you, I would have already done it while you were nose-deep in Wikipedia.”

“Yeah, yeah, big teeth, ripped throat, yadda yadda, change the record.”

“You were begging for death earlier when I left, and I see that hasn’t changed,” Derek said, pointedly ignoring him. He folded his coat up and lay it over the back of the couch. “If I wanted to kill you, I'd use something other than Christmas Cards. There’s nothing dangerous about Christmas Cards.”

“Uh, papercuts?” Stiles countered immediately, leaning back against the couch and holding his pen like a cigar as he adopted a wise, worldly tone that plainly said: _duh._ “What about all the deadly arguments they cause between couples, about who to cut out of their lives this year, and who to keep around just in case they send you expensive gifts next time? Or the flashbacks that occur when you see one that reminds you of the ugly photos you used to have to take in your pimpled youth, where you're forced to wear a disgusting, itchy jumper and pose awkwardly on the steps to your own house, just so some drunk Aunt in Australia can stick you up on her mantelpiece?”

Derek threw a dry, vaguely concerned look over his shoulder, and Stiles shrugged, running out of steam abruptly. “What? I have a vivid memory. Don't tell me your family doesn’t do that.”

Derek snorted. “Vivid isn’t the right word to describe you, Stiles. Mom prefers to send the charity cards from the Wolf Sanctuary.”

“Do they come with a complimentary hunk of meat for the more wolfy, fanged friends?”

Derek heaved a sigh. “Do you want tea?”

“If I were eighty, that might be appealing.”

Derek bent to kiss him on the forehead, like a sap, and then flipped him off rudely before disappearing into the kitchen. Stiles watched his ass thoughtfully before yelling at his retreating back. “Coffee! I’ll have coffee!”

“No,” Derek called back. “Do your marking.”

“You can’t limit a man’s caffeine consumption, Derek, that’s illegal in some states!” Stiles said, voice rising as he flopped back down on the couch and begrudgingly dragged his laptop towards him, shoving his pen between his teeth. His garbled words were still audible to werewolf ears. “Fine, but I should at least get a blowjob later as a reward.”

The sound of Derek dropping the milk and swearing viciously was vindicating enough that Stiles floated smoothly back into his writing headspace with a sense of peace. 

*

“More writing?” Stiles complained, as he joined Derek on the carpet. His marking was done, and he’d texted Scott, Laura and Mrs Hale a picture of Derek’s ass poking out from under their Christmas Tree, tangled in the lights, an ornament poised to fall on his head when he emerged, so his work for the day was done. 

The fire was roaring, there were thick squares of sugared shortbread on a plate beside Derek’s thigh, and the Christmas Cards were spread out all over the floor. 

“Not for you,” Derek said, batting Stiles’s hands away from his collection of carefully selected pens. Stiles thought the pile might have been colour-coordinated. “You’re not writing anything.”

“Dude,” Stiles said, blinking at him, all affronted, his aching fingers forgotten. “Why the hell not?”

“Because,” Derek said, as he examined a list of neatly-penned names with great care, “your handwriting is illegible, you’ll get bored halfway through one card and start scribbling about the migratory habits of geese, and you’re petty enough to leave passive-aggressive little notes in the cards for people you don't like.”

The only noise came from the fire as it crackled and popped. Stiles rolled onto his stomach, silent in the wake of Derek’s casual annihilation of his character. He propped his chin up on his hands and narrowed his eyes up at his boyfriend of three years, who was currently being a dick, but also looked very handsome and soft, which confused Stiles’s simple mind.

“That’s quite a list.”

“Mmm.”

“I wouldn’t--” Stiles began, but Derek cut him off. 

“You _would,”_ Derek said. “Mrs Bosen still doesn’t talk to us, not since you insulted her in our last Christmas Card.”

“We gave her a five dollar gift card and a tin of homemade cookies,” Stiles said, a surge of old, indignant outrage rising in him. “She gave us nothing except a re-used card. She _re-used_ a card, Derek. Everyone re-uses gift bags and stuff, but not actual cards! I’m not talking about a crappy recycled bow. This was a _card!_ She just stuck a white label over the old writing!”

“She’s our neighbour, Stiles. I have to walk past her on my way to work and she glares at me over the mailbox every time. She’s eighty-two!”

“I made those cookies with love!” 

“And _salt,”_ Derek said prissily. 

Stiles gaped at him. Derek still hadn’t looked up from his list, busy running a pencil down the names, but his eyebrows were set in bitch-mode.

“I don't think I like this new you,” Stiles said, squinting at him. “The old you wouldn’t have used an innocent baking mistake against me. It’s either the beard or the fluffy socks, but I’m leaning towards the fluffy socks, mostly because the beard is hot. The fluffy socks have changed you, Derek Hale.”

Derek ducked his head a little further down, but Stiles could see the smile he was trying to hide. His toes wiggled inside his fluffy socks. Stiles was struck with a wave of warmth as he watched Derek select the nearest card, one covered in sparkling penguins, and open it up. 

Derek's handwriting _was_ the neater of the two, if Stiles was honest, but like hell was he gonna admit that out loud, no matter how soft and handsome Derek looked. 

“At least let me pick who gets what card,” Stiles whined, sliding a hand slowly across the carpet towards the polar bear cards. Derek’s hand shot out and cupped the stack protectively, disturbing Pen Mountain en route. 

“No, I’ve already got it all decided and written down. You can pick your dad’s card, though, and Laura’s, because then if she complains about how boring the style is then I can blame it on you.”

“How very fucking generous.”

“I do try.” Derek looked up suddenly, grinning widely as he snagged a bit of shortbread off the plate and popped it in his mouth. 

Stiles snorted, feeling fond. “Ass. I’m having a cookie at least, and you’re not stopping me. _And_ I’m getting coffee.”

Derek affected a sad look, his mouth turning down exaggeratedly as he swallowed his shortbread. “Take it you changed your mind about that blowjob, then?”

Stiles made a strangled, mutinous noise and lunged for the pile of pens.

*

Derek might have been right about there being nothing dangerous about a box of Christmas Cards, but Stiles was definitely right about pens being a deadly instrument in the wrong hands. Stiles's hands, if you wanted to be specific about it. And Derek would insist on being specific about it for the foreseeable future, every time someone asked why their Christmas Cards were signed, _love Derek, and the cat._

**Author's Note:**

> They definitely don't have a cat.
> 
> Hey hey thank you very much for reading!! let me know what you thought, if you like! <3


End file.
